


Family Secret

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:10:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas is hiding something, but it's not what Jimmy expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jimmy didn’t know why he’d expected the girl to be a baby, or at least a small child. He could do basic arithmetic as well as anybody, and Thomas had admitted—when Jimmy had forced him to speak about it—that the picture in his room was out of date. It still came as a shock when Thomas’ daughter turned out to be no child, but a young lady.

Jimmy couldn’t see her at first, but she must have been watching for Thomas. She opened the door as soon as they came up the path towards the Blue Boar Inn. “Hello Mary,” Thomas said.

Mary (“Her mother didn’t name her, Jimmy, and I don’t know any girls’ names”) was tall and thin, her coal-black hair scraped back into a tight bun. She was beautiful, in a severe, mature way. She was a female Thomas, and if she’d been just a few years older, she would have solved every serious problem Jimmy ever had.

When Jimmy had found the picture of Thomas and a little girl in Thomas’ drawer, while rooting around for a book he’d lent Thomas ages ago and which he was keen to read again, he’d assumed she was a relative, a cousin of one sort or another. When Thomas came in, pale-faced, and snatched the picture out of Jimmy’s hands, he knew she was more than that. “Who is she?” Jimmy asked, playfully at first. The more Thomas evaded the question, the more he wanted to know, the more he had to know. The answer Jimmy finally received was shocking.

“When I was young,” Thomas said, at long last, staring steadfastly at the wall. “I didn’t know who I was. You know what it’s like.”

“Yes.” Jimmy knew all too well.

“Things happened.” Thomas sounded more embarrassed than he ever did when they were discussing the finer points of sexual acts. “I had relations with a woman, and she ended up…expecting.”

Jimmy swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Did you love her?”

“Of course I bloody didn’t. But that didn’t stop her from turning up on my doorstep with a baby. She told me I could drown it or wring its neck or abandon it on the church steps for all she cared, but she wanted nothing to do with it.”

“Charming.” Jimmy blinked, then looked back at the photo, hidden in Thomas’ hands. “But you didn’t do any of those things.”

“No. I was too weak.” He seemed genuinely ashamed that he hadn’t murdered his own child. Jimmy wished he was more surprised at that, but the more he got to know Thomas, the more he realized that many of Thomas’ perceptions, about himself and people and life in general, were bizarrely at odds with reality.

“That’s not weakness, Thomas,” Jimmy assured him, although it should have been obvious. Would have been obvious, to anybody else. “What did you do?”

“I found a woman I could pay to look after it. Look after her. Mary.” He took a deep breath, as if admitting to some heinous crime. “My daughter.”

Jimmy hadn’t known what to say, but he wanted to be supportive. One of his roles in life, he’d decided, was to support Thomas, to be a rock for him to lean on, a stream to wash away all the difficulty and pain that had sullied his life before. Jimmy felt boulder-like indeed when he asked, in a quiet, unshocked tone, “Where is she now?”

“Ripon.”

“What?” The boulder crumbled. The stream ran dry. “Bloody Ripon?” Jimmy had expected Manchester, or perhaps London, or even America. Not Ripon, of all places, where he and Thomas went at least once every couple of months, where they’d been to the pictures and the fair and had, against Thomas’ strenuous wishes, had the chastest possible kiss behind a pub one dark summer’s night.

Colour came to Thomas’ cheeks, growing darker with every word he uttered. “She lives at the Blue Boar Inn. She always has, they’re very good to her there.”

“Do you visit her?”

“I didn’t used to.”

That wasn’t an answer. “What about now?”

“Sometimes.”

That answer was too vague. “How often?” Jimmy pressed.

Thomas shrugged. “Three or four times a year. And Christmas, and Easter. And her birthday.”

Jimmy breathed deeply. His affair—the word seemed a bit trifling to Jimmy, but he didn’t have a better one—with Thomas had been going on for close to a year. The beginning had been rough, there was no denying it, but everything had been ironed out, more or less, and he’d thought they were at last beginning to trust one another. And now this.

“I want to meet her.”

“No,” Thomas replied.

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

Thomas had the gall to frown. “What do you think? What would I say to her? ‘Hello, Mary, this is your stepmother, why don’t the two of you go shopping for a new bloody hat?’”

Laughter rose up in Jimmy and threatened to erupt. He tamped it down firmly. There was nothing funny about this. He needed time to think, to mull it over. He squared his shoulders with as much solemn dignity as he could muster. “I think I’ll sleep in my own room tonight.”

“Fine.” The tightness in Thomas’ tone told him it was anything but.

“Good.” Jimmy left without a backwards glance. It was only later, as he lay in his own bed staring at the ceiling, that he realized Thomas had used the word “stepmother.” Which was stupid, of course. Jimmy was nobody’s wife, but it betrayed something Thomas had never before let slip about the depth of his feelings, about the seriousness with which he took their affair. Or whatever it was.

_“Stepmother” is ridiculous_ , Jimmy thought, as he pulled up his blankets. _But I’d be a cracking stepfather, I know it._

Three weeks and a great deal of coercion later, they were at the Blue Boar Inn. Mary’s eyes flicked to Jimmy with an expression of calculating suspicion so familiar it was eerie. “Who’s this?”

Thomas sighed. “My friend Mr. Kent.”

Jimmy smiled. “Hello, Mary.” He held out a hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Mary shook his hand, but before she could say anything, a woman appeared behind her. She was short and stout, and at least as old as Mrs. Patmore. The landlady, clearly, and Mary’s surrogate mother. Thomas had called her Mrs. Harris. “Hello, Mr. Barrow.” Mrs. Harris, too, looked curiously at Jimmy, but she didn’t ask about him. “Mary’s got some exciting news for you. Don’t you, Mary?” She nudged the girl.

“I started serving in the dining room this week,” Mary said.

“Just tea and cakes,” Mrs. Harris put in, “but she was wonderful. All of the patrons were asking for her.”

“Of course they were,” Thomas said. “She’s the best.” The pride in his voice made Jimmy smile, but the situation didn’t. Mary was twelve years old. True, Jimmy had gone into service when he was only slightly older, but Mary seemed young to be doing that sort of work. She was young for it.

“Come and sit down,” Mrs. Harris said. She led them through the dining room, into a private parlour behind it. It was sparsely furnished, with two armchairs, a short sofa and a table. A portrait of a whiskered man hung on the wall. “I’ll get us some tea.”

Thomas sat on the sofa so Jimmy did the same, making sure, of course, to leave a respectable gap between them. It was only after he’d done it that Jimmy wondered if Mary might have liked to sit beside her father (and Jimmy would never get used to using that word in connection with Thomas,) but she seemed content to sit across from them, on a chair. Thomas brought his cigarettes out of his pocket and flicked his lighter.

“How’s school?” Thomas asked.

“Fine,” Mary replied.

“How’s hockey?”

“I scored four goals our last match.” She said the words without any particular emphasis, as if she were just stating a fact.

“Good girl.”

“It’s not meant to be competitive.”

“Everything’s competitive, Mary.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t stop at one.”

Jimmy had stepped into some alternate world, one of the weird fantasy realms that existed in his trashier novels. He was certain of it. Mary opened her mouth, as if to say more, then shut it again.

“What is it?” Thomas asked. There was a kindness in his tone Jimmy hadn’t heard before. No, that was wrong. He had heard it before, but only when Thomas was talking to Jimmy himself.

“I wondered if you might come and see a match one day.”

Thomas hadn’t expected that. Jimmy could tell. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaling a plume of smoke towards the whiskered man. “Perhaps,” he said, vaguely. He shifted on the sofa and pulled out his wallet. “Before I forget, I’ve got a gift.” He handed her a stack of notes. “Buy yourself a nice dress. Or new books. A hockey stick, whatever you like,” he added, awkwardly.

Mary took the money and said, “Thank you,” but it didn’t sound particularly heartfelt.

“I’ve got a gift for you, as well,” Jimmy said, and they turned to him, in such near unison that it sent a prickle up Jimmy’s spine. Thomas didn’t know about this. It had been a last minute, spur of the moment decision of Jimmy’s. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat. “Sorry, there was no time to wrap it.”

It was one of Jimmy’s best combs, one of the set Lady Anstruther had given him his last Christmas with her. The edge was whalebone and inset with red glass. He passed it to Mary, who took it like she wasn’t sure what it was for. But, Jimmy thought, just look at her father’s hair. The poor girl needed a mentor in that department, while she was still young enough for it to make a difference.

“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” Mary said, politely.

Jimmy smiled. “You’re welcome.” _See?_ He told himself. _You’ve got this stepfathering thing down already._

They had tea and biscuits. Mrs. Harris talked more about Mary’s forays into dining room service, which still made Jimmy uncomfortable, although Thomas was every inch the beaming father over it. They stayed for an hour, and when it was time to leave, Thomas held out his hand to Mary. “Oh, come off it.” The words escaped Jimmy’s mouth before he could pen them in.

Thomas looked at him. “What is it, Mr. Kent?”

On second thought, Jimmy was glad he hadn’t penned them in. They needed his help. “You can’t give your daughter a handshake.”

“Why not?” Mary seemed genuinely puzzled.

Mrs. Harris, clearly the only other sane person in the room, suggested, “Perhaps you could embrace him, Mary.” She still said it like it was a novel idea, something they’d never done before.

They obviously hadn’t. Thomas stepped forward and gave her the briefest of hugs, barely putting his arms around Mary’s shoulders before he let her go again. A stranger might have thought that was all Thomas was capable of, but Jimmy knew better than that. He knew how affectionate Thomas could be, but Jimmy clearly had his work cut out for him here.

As they walked away from the inn, Thomas said, “You wanted to stop by that shop you like near the canal, don’t you?” Which meant he wanted to pretend that the previous hour hadn’t occurred. _No chance, Thomas._ Jimmy smiled.

“She’s lovely.”

“Do you think so?” Thomas’ voice was sarcastic, but his expression was not.

Jimmy bumped his arm. “Of course I do. She’s just like you.” For better and for worse. “She’s young, though, to be serving in dining rooms already.”

Thomas’ smile evaporated. “What choice has she got?”

Not much, Jimmy supposed. “She’s nearly old enough to be a housemaid,” he suggested, although that wasn’t a gem of an alternative. “You could bring her to Downton. See her every day.”

“There’s no future in service. Mrs. Harris loves her. If Mary stays in there, she could stand to inherit the lot one day. Or she might meet a nice rich bloke in a few years’ time. There’s loads of people pass through that hotel.” Thomas’ eyes came up. They held expression Jimmy had only seen once before: guilt. “I know it’s not much, but what else can I give her?”

“You don’t need to feel bad.” Jimmy held up a hand, before Thomas could protest what was obviously the truth. He was fond of doing that. “You’re doing all you can for her. You’re doing a good job.”

They walked on a bit, down towards the canal. There was one more question Jimmy wanted to ask. He came out with it plainly, hoping that would inspire an equally honest answer. “Does anybody else know about her?”

“Only O’Brien.”

Jimmy had half-expected it, but the knowledge still chilled him. The thought of what he himself had nearly done to Thomas, and to Mary, chilled him. Jimmy pushed it aside. He had to, or the guilt of it would weigh him down, and today, he wanted to feel light. “Let’s go have a drink,” he said. “Papa,” he added, quietly, and walked quickly away, leaving Thomas to catch up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel, at the request of shadegarden.

Jimmy watched, trying not to stare, as a gaggle of girls passed directly in front of him, skirts fluttering and hockey sticks flying. A moment later, they passed back in the other direction, the wind whipping at their uniforms.

“You think they’d wear trousers for this.” The uniforms didn’t seem at all practical, particularly when the girls tumbled onto the grass and all but revealed their unmentionables. _Alfred would love it,_ Jimmy thought. _The degenerate._ “Who came up with uniforms like that?”

“It’s not any more impractical than playing cricket in a woollen jumper.”

“There’s not that much running in cricket.” These girls never seemed to stop. Unlike Thomas, Jimmy wasn’t of a particularly sporting bent, but he couldn’t help but be impressed at the athleticism of these young women, at the way they put their hearts into the game even though nobody seemed to be keeping score.

“It’s because they’re girls,” Thomas said, when Jimmy asked. “It’s not ladylike to be competitive.” Perhaps not, but Jimmy had known many women, of both the upstairs and downstairs varieties, who would cut the throat of any man in their path without turning a hair on their pretty heads. His mother had been like that. She’d had to be.

“Come on, Mary!” Thomas rested his cigarette in his mouth and clapped as the horde galloped by again. Both Mary’s school, St. Margaret’s, and their opponent, Ripon Grammar School, were day schools, but very few spectators had come to the match. A smattering of people, mostly women, stood along the far side of the field, while Thomas and Jimmy were two of only half a dozen watching from this side. That included three nuns, given that St. Margaret’s was, evidently, a Catholic school.

“Mary’s a charity pupil,” Thomas had explained. “She earned it. They only take the brightest. And it’s a very good school. I told her one can believe in anything for a leg up in the world. Or at least pretend to.”

“That’s good advice. But one can’t sustain it forever.” Jimmy knew that first-hand. He’d pretended for years that he was just waiting for the right girl to come along. It had taken Thomas, and all the strife he’d brought with him, for Jimmy to admit the truth, even to himself.

“She’ll be out of school by the time she’s fourteen. It’s not her whole life.” 

Jimmy stretched his legs. There was nowhere to sit, and they’d been standing on the side of the pitch for what seemed like forever, since well before the match began. Thomas had been very concerned about being late. One of the nuns, the middle-aged one with thick spectacles, kept casting glances in their direction, but nobody else had showed the slightest interest in them. “And you were worried everybody would be suspicious,” Jimmy said.

Thomas shrugged, never taking his eyes off the action. He’d barely looked away from Mary since she’d taken to the field. When she scored a goal, which was frequently, she looked over to see Thomas’ reaction. He clapped and cheered with obvious pride, and Mary smiled, a little, before getting back to the game. It warmed Jimmy’s heart every time. He longed to embrace Thomas, or at least take his hand. Instead he said, “It’s good of you to be here.”

“You insisted on it.”

“But you wanted to come.” It had merely taken a little persuasion, and a little convincing from Mrs. Harris that Mary truly did want Thomas to see her play. “This sort of thing matters, Thomas. It does.” It wasn’t the time or the place for personal revelations, but looking at Thomas, so paternal and loving, brought the words to the surface. “I’m like her.” Jimmy had never admitted to it, not since he’d come to Downton. Not since he’d left home, really. “A…by-blow.” The other word for it meant nothing to Jimmy. He’d heard it so much during his childhood he’d become inured, but he would never apply it to lovely Mary.

Thomas glanced over, briefly, then turned back. “I thought you said your father died in the war.”

“He did. I know who he was.” A businessman, handsome and middle-class, with a beautiful house and a beautiful wife and a bevy of beautiful children. Including Jimmy, who lived ten miles away from that house, in a two-up, two-down hovel with his mother, his aunt and uncle, and five cousins. “I didn’t see him much. But when I did, it was very…memorable for me.” He’d shown up occasionally. One day, out of the blue, Jimmy would come home from school and his father would be there, sitting on the front steps because Auntie Joan wouldn’t have him in the house. He always brought something for Jimmy: a toy train with peeling paint, a model airplane, a dog-eared Boy’s Own Annual. Later, Jimmy assumed these were cast-offs from his other sons, the ones who lived with him, but at the time, they were precious gifts, boons from a man who was next to a god in Jimmy’s eyes. “He was a rotter.” Jimmy could see that, as he grew older. His father gave them nothing of value. Jimmy’s mother and Auntie Joan had to take in washing to make ends meet; more than once, he and his cousins were sent to the butcher’s to get a joint for supper, only to return home empty handed because the family was so far in debt no further credit would be extended.

When he was about Mary’s age, Jimmy confronted his father about it, and his father had never visited again. “He wasn’t like you, Thomas.” Thomas took responsibility for Mary, he cared about her wellbeing. He loved her, deeply, although Jimmy knew he would never admit it aloud for fear of revealing a weakness. He didn’t need to say anything. It was obvious every time he looked at her.

“I told Mrs. Harris her mother died in childbirth.” Thomas still didn’t take his eyes off the match. “That’s what Mary thinks, too. I never wanted her to wonder why anybody would abandon her. On purpose, like.” He pinched out his cigarette and dropped the end onto the ground. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“I love you.” There was nobody within earshot. Jimmy turned away from the nuns, just in case they could read lips. “I never expected to, but I do. So much.”

“Shut up.” Thomas shook his head, but there was a glimmer of happiness in his eyes. It happened so rarely, even now, that Jimmy wanted to hold onto it, to keep it for as long as he could.

“The best things in life are often the ones we don’t expect, aren’t they?” Jimmy said, feeling quite pleased with himself. He watched Mary score another goal, slipping the ball effortlessly past the grammar school’s goalkeeper, and cheered.


End file.
